


We Were All Young Once

by AbsentGoddess



Series: Tales of Fen'Harel/Solas [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Foci, Origin Story, War, clan strife
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 21:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12262854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsentGoddess/pseuds/AbsentGoddess
Summary: The elven clans are falling apart and with the strife, they are all weakening over time.  When Fen'Harel is lured into helping Mythal deliver an artifact to a rival clan, he is forced to finish a mission before an old magic claims his life.  Having to sneak around to keep it a secret, he unknowingly sows the seeds of distrust early.  Will carrying out Mythal's mission have the results he is hoping for?A spoiler-free description for any readers that don't know how the events of the game will make this story turn out...This story attempts to take the scant knowledge and lore and present a possible origin story for the events surrounding Arlathan.  There may be NSFW elements-- it's still a new fanfic, so it could go anywhere.





	1. The First Artifact

**Author's Note:**

> The story starts at a time when elves lived as humble tribes, versed in simple magics and living in communities. They have separated into clans and isolated themselves from each other, with the exception of one young elf, a man named Fen'Harel who travels freely among them. 
> 
> *Will work on formatting later; just wanted to get it posted...

Fen’harel felt the lust of war upon him.

He threw back his head, the long dark dreadlocks whipping around him, as he let out a war cry that quickly dissolved into laughter.

Right before a squishy wet smack jolted his head forward. His hand slapped to the back of his head, a wet sticky warmth, but when he pulled his hand away it was simply the broken length of a soft stick that impaled the pulpy remains of some orange rotten fruit dripping with pearly wet seeds. He was a fan of pearly wet seeds, but of a different nature altogether…

He spun around, the name of his attacker already on his lips before he could confirm it.

“Andruil… Not. Funny,” he chided, coal-lined eyes flashing silver with mischief. Sylaise squealed with delight and clapped gleefully, the bags of herbs at her belt bobbing as she jumped up and down.

Andruil smiled with unabashed pride. Her arrows never missed their mark. As Fen’Harel approached them, Sylaise ducked shyly behind her sister and laughed with quiet delicate tones. He flung away the fruit and smiled a toothy grin, his sharp canines flashing a challenge. Before he could act, Sylaise piped up.

“June really wants you to take repast with us this evening! Says he has a new weapon to show you…” Sylaise blurted out, her cheeks coloring at her boldness.

She always knew how to bargain her way out of punishment. Fen’Harel’s eyes lit up with curiosity. June was unparalleled at weapon crafting, but occasionally he also acquired foreign weapons.  
“This one’s from the clan opposite the River…” Sylaise intimated, a sort of unrest in her eyes as she said it.

Fen’Harel was the only one among their clan that mingled with the ones across the River. They dabbled in magic that seemed to always put his clan to superstitious unease, but Fen’Harel had gotten caught in one of their nets one time when he was swept down river in a careless fall while hunting. They had seen to him and he had known they weren’t as bad as tales had said. He unconsciously looked in that direction, suppressing the fondness he had at the memory. They were different. Nothing wrong with that in his book.

  
He never quite understood what had driven them to keep to their own clans in distrust, but neither clan seemed to mind that Fen’Harel moved freely between them. There were more clans to the east and the west, none of which seemed to want much to do with the other. For a long time, some unknown force was weakening his people. Their centuries-long lifespans were growing shorter, becoming isolated and fearful.

  
“I should like to see it…” was all he said before he started down the hill towards the cottage Sylaise and June shared. Andruil had her own lodging, but her and Sylaise were close so they rarely spent their days apart.

  
Ghilan’nain was coming up the path as they descended and she smiled and waved at them, her white hair drawn up in a matronly bun. She was leading her halal alongside an aravel to the other side of that hill where she put them to pasture before stabling them for the night.

  
It seemed as if a lot of familiar faces were popping up today and Falon’Din and Dirthamen, twins in more than blood, stood smirking where they leaned against the fat trunk of an ancient gnarled tree. He’d scarcely be able to tell them apart if not for Dirthamen’s twin ravens on either of his shoulders. Harel and Masal were what he called them and it didn’t escape his notice that it was part of his own name. He hated those damn birds and never trusted anyone that would suffer them.

  
Fen’Harel narrowed his eyes and acted like he didn’t see them. They were in mutual agreement there. For all that he cared for their parents, Mythal and Elgar’nan, he never had quite the same loyalty for those two. He trusted the river clan more, truth be told.

  
Fen’Harel had enjoyed repast with his friends and had left as the sun was winking away on the horizon. He didn’t live in the more populated part of the village. He always favored living on the very edges of the woods where he had fashioned a simple hut from wolf skins. It was cozy and warm on cool nights and he could unlace a flap to let in a gentle breeze on the balmy ones. He had no need for anything fancy, not when all he used it for was to store a few things and sleep. Sometimes not even that. He might wander off for days on some hunt or task and simply swing himself up into a tree to take his rest. He had nothing to fear from other elves, but wolves were opportunists. They stayed away from the village proper where the torches were lit, but everything else was fair game. He rather liked that about them. They embraced their nature, cautious and clever yet bold and efficient.

  
All the same, between them and him, he did not hesitate to take their lives if they grew too bold. He could always use fresh tent covers, blankets or another fur to belt around him on those chilly days. He usually gave the bones to June to make weapons and sewing needles and arrowheads for the clan.

  
He had reached the stretch of road where other elves wouldn’t be traveling at this time, but suddenly came to a halt. Mythal stood against a tree, looking picture perfect, a primal goddess, and his throat went dry. She wore that white silk toga that billowed on the slightest breeze, those long thin arms bronzed and lithe, her pink cupid’s bow of a mouth curled up in genuine gladness to see him as she pushed away from it. Her blonde hair was tamed back into one long braid and he always itched to undo it and run his fingers through it.

  
He didn’t mean to fixate on her beauty and it wasn’t the only thing he liked about her. She was a kind and gentle woman, yet strong and resourceful. She was charitable—she talked to everyone and everyone loved her. It wasn’t lust he felt for her, just admiration for her head to toe, inside and out perfection. He was not a man that needed to possess the perfect woman. She was Elgar’nan’s, a man he deeply respected as leader. What he felt for Mythal was deep and abiding, the purest love and one that needed no physical satiation. He could find that in any woman, and did. Mythal was the thread that held them all in peace and prosperity. Perhaps he loved the woman, but he loved her ideals for the thriving of their kind even more.

  
He didn’t realize he was staring until she laughed at the intensity on his face. He bowed his head in greeting, not daring to trust his voice to speak.

  
“I was looking for you. I wanted to ask you a favor,” Mythal asked him. As sweet as she looked, her voice was deep and melodic.

  
“You know I would never deny you anything,” Fen’Harel reminded her and she nodded with confidence.

  
“I thank you for that. I’d like you to take something to the river clan for me, if you would,” Mythal asked, a hesitation in her voice that usually wasn’t there. It wasn’t like her to falter or resort to vagaries.

  
Normally, Mythal asked her sons to run her errands, but anything to do with the river clan was always his domain. He knew that Mythal did not take issue with them, but she would never dare to anger her husband. It was not that he bought into the superstitions, but his clan would not be happy if he let their beloved Mythal amongst the wolves. As if there was any ‘not letting’ her; Mythal might seem demure, but once her mind was made up, good luck stopping her.

  
He always felt shy looking down at her, like he was too tall, too clumsy, too mismatched. It was discomforting and yet he didn’t want to escape it. It was in his nature to be rebellious and defiant, but all of that masculine energy seemed to calm around her. It wasn’t the same effect that Ghilan’nain had, the patient matronly air. It was more encompassing, more like bathing in pure love rather than the simplicity of a comforting embrace.

  
He caught his hand drifting forward to brush away a tendril of her hair that had escaped from the braid before pulling it back as a fist at his side. Mythal did not have the same reservations as she reached out and playfully tugged a lock of his own wild mane.

  
“I’ve always wondered how you’ve managed to keep all this hair without it getting in the way. It’s lovely, but a contradiction nonetheless,” Mythal mused, laying her finger on the bleached bone of the wolf cub’s skull that clasped together the fur over his chest. He felt a tingle as if she were tickling his own scalp.

  
The sentiment shocked him. Lovely? It was an absurd word, a description no one ever applied to him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the golden fringe of her lashes as her hooded new-leaf colored eyes examined the skull with a sort of reverent praise.

  
He pulled her into an embrace, pressing his cheek against the crown of her head, not bothering to disguise a deep whiff of her hair. It always smelled like sunshine… Mythal’s arm slid around him without shame or hesitation.

  
“All is well, Fen’Harel… Don’t be troubled,” she murmured into his furs, leaning back only enough to stand on tiptoe and place a kiss on his dimpled chin. “There is nothing to worry about. They know you, so I send you only to give them no cause for alarm.”

  
His arms reluctantly fell away from her and he nodded, but she kept her arms around him and smiled again.

  
“Keep it wrapped. You will know why when they receive it,” Mythal instructed, laughing again when the troubled look creased his brow. She reached up and smoothed away the crease with her finger. “Ah, I should have known my wolf would not be so easily calmed. It is an artifact of magic, one that they would know how to handle, so worry not. I would not ask you to cause unrest between our clans.”

  
Fen’Harel shook his head.

  
“I would never think that of you!” he barked out, louder than he intended. He schooled his voice to continue. “I should take you at your word. It is not my business and I shouldn’t have troubled you to explain.”

  
He hadn’t said anything, of course, but she always seemed to see into people’s hearts and he could never hide his from her.

  
“It is your nature,” Mythal said with an inconsequential shrug. “Just as it is mine to know the nature of all things.”

  
Fen’Harel managed a small smile. Usually, his smiles were quick and wild, but there was always too much there with her, so it was an effort just to breathe. He loved her, he knew it well, but it wasn’t like any love he could name. It wasn’t a bond of lovers like Mythal had with Elgar’nan or the familiar compatibility that Sylaise and June had. It wasn’t as basic as sexual attraction or its more dangerous extreme, obsession. The only word he ever had for it was ‘pure’ and even that wasn’t quite right. Augh, it bothered him that he couldn’t name it, that he spent so much energy trying. Elves were intuitive creatures and it seemed odd that they lacked any words at all, but this was where it fell short. He bit his tongue to stop his thoughts from tormenting him.

  
Fen’Harel clasped the small wrapped artifact with care and purpose, his face becoming serious and dutiful.

  
“I’ll go right away,” he hissed, barely a whisper on the wind.

  
Mythal chuckled as he started to brush past her, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder.

  
“I knew I should have waited. Rest first and go in the morning. The creatures are restless tonight on the eve of the last summer moon. You can wait at least until the first light,” Mythal chided kindly.

  
He hesitated, his nature begging him to defy her and remind her that he feared nothing, but her eyes left a silent command and he nodded his resignation.  
“First light then,” he conceded.

  
Mythal nodded her satisfaction and walked away towards her home. It would be a long walk but through the safety of the main roads, well-lit and well-guarded. Every step away seemed to weigh heavier on his heart and only when she was out of sight was he able to snap out of his trance and head back home.

 


	2. Secrets of the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel agrees to deliver the artifact, his own rebellious nature at war with duty and the curiosity of knowing what it is. The truth leaves him with a sense of betrayal and the need to see it through, if only for self preservation. Knowing that his quest will sow the seeds of betrayal, he had no choice but to adhere to duty and the tireless conviction that it has to be for the greater good.

Fen’Harel had not been able to wait for first light and had stolen out of his hut while the morning dew was still forming under the glow of the moon. In truth, whatever he held made him nervous.  It wasn’t that he was unversed in magic; the nine of them were all mages of different disciplines.  Ghilan’nain, Elgar’nan, Mythal, Falon’Din, Dirthamen, Sylaise, Andruil, June and himself; all with no lack of arcane knowledge.  All elves held magic, it was what made them elves after all, but common mages were not quite as connected as high mages.  The fact that he felt no connection through the artifact’s wrapping had unnerved him.  It wasn’t impossible that the binding was meant to contain it, but like Mythal had said, it wasn’t in his nature to quell his curiosity.

The only thing he could think to do was to set off.  Their lands were vast and it was no short walk.  Every step closer to his goal was another step closer to knowing.  Nevertheless, he had that little voice that reminded him that he could know NOW if he really wanted to…

He knew small things already.  It was round, easy to hold in the palm of one hand, grooves on the surface…  It seemed an odd box to protect something in, so he guessed that that was the nature of the artifact rather than the container.

It plagued his thoughts, but had made the journey seem much faster and before long, he had reached the river that bordered the two clans.

The river clan (who actually called themselves the Fomoire, a word that was actually pronounced fuh-muh-zhuh) were a shorter lot than his clan.  His clan (which the Fomoire called the Danae, but he dared not tell his clan that they assigned any name to them) tended to favor furs because of the abundance of furry creatures.  This far north, the land got wetter and hotter and the Fomoire had far more water creatures.  They tended to wear the skins of alligators, an intricate patterning of scales over the strong dry surface kept flexible with argan oils massaged into them.  They were a hairier sort with smaller eyes, but no less an elf where pointy ears were concerned.  There was certainly no way you could mistake one from the other.

Fen’Harel had long favored wearing the tight skin of reptiles as his leggings.  It had drawn looks from his own people at first, but it was a harmless gift and even June had taken to the style, touting how handy they were while he worked.  They did not catch fire when embers flicked from his forge and needles did not pierce them.

He had crossed the river, walking a bit further still before coming upon the first of the river clan, a wary man with dark hair and eyes that lightened as he recognized Fen’Harel.

“Well, if it isn’t the Dread Wolf!” the man called out with a friendly guffaw.

“Dread Wolf?” Fen’Harel asked curiously.

“From far away you always look like a man turned wolf.  Fills the little ones with dread,” he explained, clapping Fen’Harel on the back as they met up.

“My own people call me a wolf at times, but never as a title,” Fen’Harel protested.

“Around here, titles are par for the course.  And that’s the name we found fit you well.  Not to mention, you’re always bringing bad news with the good,” the man teased.

It took Fen’Harel a moment to remember the man’s name. He had always assumed it was Tuttle, but after hearing that, it seemed far more likely that it was actually Turtle.

“Turtle…” he mused out loud and the man clapped his back again.  Fen’Harel’s thoughts were already wandering towards what he had said, that he always brought bad news with the good.  Was that the case now?  He wished he had given into his curiosity so he could be sure.  He hated that he doubted Mythal.  However, it was more likely that Elgar’nan was the one actually behind this and Mythal had not known either.

“I need to see the Chieftain this time,” Fen’Harel finally intoned.

“What for?” Turtle asked immediately, not with suspicious, just being forthright.  Fen’Harel wished he could be so sure himself.

“Mythal asked me to deliver something to him,” Fen’Harel told him, hating how thick the obscurity of ‘something’ felt on his tongue.  Turtle heard it too.

“Ah, ‘something’…  You wouldn’t be you without a touch of that mystery, would you?” Turtle shot back good-naturedly.

That seemed to make Fen’Harel frown too.  He had never thought of himself as mysterious.  He thought he telegraphed himself quite a bit, but then he was a hunter by nature.  It might have escaped his notice which role he played socially.  Too much seemed to bother him in this short span of time and once again, he squeezed at the orb he had tucked away under his furs.  Ever since Mythal had given him this…

Once again, his thoughts had muddied and he found himself surprised to turn up in front of the Chieftain’s lodge.  He ducked into the building (built for much shorter people and he was tall even by his clan’s standards) and the Chieftain’s fierce gaze relaxed only slightly to see Fen’Harel.

“To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” the quiet gruff voice asked from the other side of his large table.

Fen’Harel ducked his head in a quick bow of respect this time, his hand clasping the orb inside of it ungently now.  His hand moved mechanically as he withdrew it and set it wrapped before him, unable to stop glaring at it, willing it to open.

“An artifact.  Mythal sends her regards,” Fen’Harel added.  Even among the Fomoire, Mythal was a vouchsafe.  She would be welcomed here undoubtedly but the politics were much too shaky for it to be so.

“Ah, I see…” the Chieftain said, but even he did not sound placated.

The Chieftain unwrapped the wrapping and Fen’Harel had to suppress a gasp.  The man always did like to rip the bandage off. It seemed terribly anticlimactic that it was exactly what it seemed; a carved stone orb.  All the same, there was a feeling of otherness that had not gone away and soon he was to know why.

He could feel the Chieftain channeling now; it was familiar whether the nine mages of his clan did so or whether the nine of the Fomoire did (there was the old saying that power came in threes, but supreme power came in threes of threes). His eyes fluttered under the tingle, the fine hairs of his body standing on end.  The grooves in the orb started to glow faintly red and Fen’Harel swallowed past a lump in his throat.

“Is that… Is that a foci?” Fen’Harel asked nervously.

He knew of them, but had never known they were anything but legend.

The Chieftain nodded.

“It is said my clan’s ancestors were the ones to make them, but no one is truly certain of where they came from,” the Chieftain said.  Fen’Harel knew this but he stayed silent, content to watch it glow, a strange peace radiating from it, not quite like the purity of Mythal, but similar nonetheless.  This one called to him and the Chieftain frowned and held out the orb to Fen’Harel.

Fen’Harel shook his head, hating the cowardice of the action, but the Chieftain only smiled sympathetically.

“This one is not mine, Dread Wolf.  It is yours,” the Chieftain told him, grabbing Fen’Harel’s wrist with his other hand and placing the orb into it.

Instantly it started to glow green, as if it was some indicator of the truth of the Chieftain’s words.  Fen’Harel dropped to his knees, the ecstasy of the feeling of belonging surging through him and he cried out as if in climax.  No one watching felt discomfort, as if they knew already what would happen.  Maybe they did.  The Fomoire had many secrets.

When he was able to gather his senses, he expected to feel drained but he felt the opposite.  He felt as if he would launch through the clouds and burst into all of the stars in the sky.  Not painfully, but a sudden expansion into everything above a single being in one body.

“What is the nature of this?” Fen’Harel asked unsteadily, thrumming with its power, rolling it around his hand in awe.

“The nature of who it belongs to,” was all the Chieftain would say.

He wondered if Mythal or Elgar’nan was the one to know this was why Fen’Harel had to go here to learn this.  Outside of the watchful eyes of his own clan so as not to stir any unrest in the unknown.  Clearly, this clan did not feel the same.  Fen’Harel nodded, leaving it to ponder on.  His clan’s libraries were extensive and while he always liked books, they were a very small part of his daily life.  It seemed with the purpose of learning more about Foci, he had much more reason to change that.

“I am sorry to have troubled you.  I was never told the purpose of coming here,” Fen’Harel did not admit easily.

“And if Mythal was sent to you, it’s no wonder why you wouldn’t press it,” the Chieftain teased now. Fen’Harel blushed in both anger and embarrassment.  Was it that obvious that Mythal was a blindspot for him?  This did not bode well at all.

“I won’t make that mistake again,” Fen’Harel grumbled, adding a bow of respect before turning to leave.

“There are others,” the Chieftain added, stopping Fen’Harel in his tracks.

“And what are you implying?” Fen’Harel shot over his shoulder.

“That until we retrieve them all, yours will only become a weight upon you.  You felt it.  The incredible power, the link, but you also felt the limits.  When the others are found and claimed, only then will the Foci complete the loop,” the Chieftain promised.

“And why should I trust you?” Fen’Harel demanded.  He did not look apologetic now, tiring of being subjected to this game, angry for suppressing his instincts to rebel, to go against his own nature.

The Chieftain laughed roughly.  He always seemed to enjoy the cornered wolf more.

“You shouldn’t.  Yet you know I speak the truth,” the Chieftain said simply.

Fen’Harel lowered his eyelids, his mouth drawn in a tight line.

“I am returning to my clan.  If there is more to be said, I will return again,” Fen’Harel added in clipped tones before storming out in a swirl of dreadlocks and fur, concealing the Foci in his furs once again.

“Are they your clan, Dread Wolf?  Or are you something else?” the Chieftain called after.

“Always!” Fen’Harel shouted and meant it to both questions.  He wasn’t sure if the robust laughter that followed him had simply stopped after a time or if he had moved too far to hear it.  He never remembered being so effortlessly swift in his life.


	3. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel returns to his clan with a sense of betrayal and the mission to learn more about the Foci he now possesses. He ends up revealing its presence to someone he would rather not know it just yet and must take Andruil along secretly to retrieve the next.

Indeed, the journey back had seemed to go much quicker and without the distraction of thought.  The passage of the sun in the sky had only confirmed that it was not just a feeling.  It would have taken him past nightfall to return any other time, but he found himself in the courtyard garden of Elgar’nan and Mythal’s vast manor only slightly past the midday hour.

Mythal had turned from her admiration of the flowers as if expecting him, but when his lips clamped down on hers, she had been genuinely shocked.  All the same, she did not struggle nor encourage his sudden ardor.  He pulled away, gasping, a flicker of silver light passing behind his eyes. She gently created distance between them, a serene smile on her face but one that did not reach her eyes.  Concern and reprimand wavered there.

“You are not yourself,” Mythal said, an odd note of apology in her voice.

“I went against my nature,” he returned with blame in his.

“Perhaps you have yet to learn the intricacies of your nature,” she defended calmly.

“You knew what this was,” he accused more firmly, his hands balling into fists.  He didn’t need to say he was talking about the Foci.  Not with her…

“And I knew you could handle it,” Mythal assured him, turning to tend to the flowers again. “You also know better than I what must be done…”

“I trusted you!” he shouted, not sure why he was so angry.  It was not for the deception.  He was afraid.  How was he being used and to what end?

“I know that there is a reason why the Foci has returned and why it was yours.  It is not with any aim that I thrust this onto you.  If it was meant to be mine, I would have gladly taken your burden. Is it truly shocking that it would be the bridge between the clans to receive it first? I truly believe that the Foci are something that can bring the clans together.  I would never have risked you without that belief,” Mythal told him with quiet resolve.

The thrumming of his pulsing heart slowed and he felt more like himself, regret washing over him.  Of course, Mythal would be the thinking of the greater good.  He hated himself for doubting her.

“I am sorry I attacked you,” Fen’Harel returned with sincerity once silence passed too long between them.

Mythal laughed now.

“Your words were deserved, my wolf, and a kiss like that is rather a boon,” Mythal told him, brushing off the tension between them.

 _No, it isn’t…  Elgar’nan would have my head if he knew.  That was no friendly kiss.  I wanted you right then, with an intensity that frightened me…_ he thought, disturbed at the recollection.

“It won’t happen again,” Fen’ Harel resolved with certainty.

Mythal frowned a little.

“That is not as comforting as you seem to think,” Mythal teased.  It was not like her to tease him, but she would not meet his eyes as she tended to her garden.

He had made up his mind to put barriers between them and now the lines were blurring once more.  It did not bode well to him.

“I have to go,” Fen’Harel hurried to say before turning without waiting for her response.

Still, she nodded behind him.

“You will not fail me,” Mythal murmured, sure that he would not.

 

The library was vast and he had spent many quiet hours sifting through the sections, looking for anything he could on the Foci.  He tried to carry as many as he could and barely got through a quarter of the section on artifacts before he had reached the limit.  He would still need to carry them back to his hut or he might have added a couple more.  With the pressure of the books on his stomach, it reminded him with a hollow groan that he had not eaten since he left before first light.

In truth, he did not know what he was looking for so he latched onto anything even remotely close.  Dwarven legends, perhaps…  The Foci were said to be Dwarven in origin and the supposed ancestors of the Fomoire, another point against them where his clan was concerned.  No elf in his clan would ever take to the idea that Dwarven blood mingled with theirs.  It was absurd, even to Fen’Harel, but he didn’t hate them for it either.

“You seem busy,” came a familiar voice and Fen’Harel’s skin crawled with distaste that those words were punctuated by the cackling sound of those damn ravens.

“No time to talk,” Fen’Harel hissed as he awkwardly shifted the books.  The awkwardness made him wish he was a couple more books shy when facing that pompous bastard.

Dirthamen laughed and started to walk beside Fen’Harel.  You would think they were old friends if you didn’t know better.

“Don’t be like that!  We never talk,” Dirthamen drawled out, that sniveling mocking tone in his silky voice.

“I might not, but you certainly don’t shut up,” Fen’Harel grumbled, making Dirthamen laugh, a dry cackle like his ravens.  They were happy to mock the one sound they excelled at.

“You spoke to my mother,” Dirthamen began and this drew Fen’Harel to a halt.  He wondered now what that implied.  Had his birds whispered what passed between him and Mythal?

Fen’Harel tossed the books onto the ground and they jostled but stayed stacked as he spun on Dirthamen.

“What of it?” Fen’Harel challenged, bearing his teeth.

Dirthamen shrugged as if bored.

“So defensive…  She wouldn’t let me run an errand for her.  Insisted her pet wolf had to.  How does it feel to be everyone’s favorite?” Dirthamen said, a touch of jealousy unhidden.  It would not have been a mistake that he did so.  Nothing that man did was without purpose.

“Probably the opposite of how everyone feels about you,” Fen’Harel returned nastily.

Dirthamen laughed, not denying it.

“I’m no monster.  I have certainly never done anything to lose the faith of my clan,” Dirthamen pressed.  ‘My clan’ had been emphasized as if Fen’Harel was a clear outsider.  Fen’Harel balled his fists.

“You’re just as bad as those filthy birds of yours, always picking at scraps, spreading the useless husks of seeds. If you were meant to know, she would tell you, but insofar there is nothing to tell,” Fen’Harel insisted, the ravens scattering as he planted his fist into Dirthamen’s face, knocking him to the ground.

Dirthamen swept his legs and knocked Fen’Harel from his feet, a fist crashing into Fen’Harel’s face with the same viciousness.  More punches were exchanged, the blood lust upon them both before a green glow made Dirthamen step away wide-eyed.

“That is not ‘nothing’,” Dirthamen whispered cautiously.

Fen’Harel did not remember pulling it out of his furs, but the Foci sat comfortably in his hand, leaving them both awash in its light. He tucked it away begrudgingly.

“There, now you have your secrets, asshole.  Keep them that way.  In truth, we know no more than that.  Piss me off all you want, but mommy and daddy will be the ones you face if you run your mouth,” Fen’Harel growled, wiping at the blood oozing from his lip.

Dirthamen nodded, the fight drained out of him (and the wheels in his head clearly turning) and spun around to return to the village.  Fen’Harel picked up his books again.  Hungry though he was, his stomach was in knots.  As much as he hated it, he always kept Sylaise’s tea to remedy that.  He would eat once that kicked in.

 

It certainly wasn’t like him to hole up for days, subsisting on his stock of jerky and drinking water from a large clay jug.  It only took a few days before Sylaise had poked her head in with concern, his forearm flying up to his eyes to shield the offensive burst of light.  He could’ve left the flap open for light, but he used a lantern.  He was so buried in his task that he didn’t want to risk anyone sneaking up on him and catching on to what he was up to.  The Chieftain had not been kidding about the building force of an unknown weight on him, either.

“Hey, Fen…  brought you some lunch,” Sylaise told him, holding up a huge basket of food.

He fumbled with words for a moment then smiled politely.  The hut was small with little room to move around if he had his bedroll out, but he was always meticulous about not leaving it out and the only mess was his mountain of books.  He grabbed an unused quill pen from the floor and used it to mark the book he was reading before shutting it, shoving the books aside to give her room while she tied back the flap.

“I never thought a hut could get so musty…  You haven’t been out at all?” Sylaise asked with concern.

Fen’Harel rubbed his eyes and shook his head as she knelt in front of him and spread out a small blanket to start unpacking food onto it.  The smell and steam of hot meat set his mouth to watering.  Sylaise was no slouch in the kitchen, but this…

“Ghilan’nain is in on this too?” Fen’Harel asked with a grimace.

Sylaise smiled brightly and nodded.

“She made it with your favorite spices, of course! We’ve been worried about you, but Mythal said you’d be fine.  We at least wanted to make sure you’re eating.  Can’t tell if you’ve been sleeping with all that coal around your eyes,” Sylaise added with amusement.

Fen’Harel shook his head.

“Afraid not, but I won’t be much longer.  I have… some idea of where my next adventure will lead,” Fen’Harel assured her.  “Promise I’ll rest before I go though.”

Sylaise nodded, satisfied, and ate demurely as he started crushing a whole roast leg. She giggled a little as he let the grease pour down his chin and drip on his scale leggings.  They ate in companionable silence and Sylaise could tell that he was eager to get back to his task, so she stood and bowed slightly at the waist.

“I’ll let you keep the leftovers.  Make sure you eat!  Do let me know before you leave,” Sylaise added before skipping off girlishly.

He smiled to himself, almost forgetting what he had been talking about.

“Oh, Sylaise!” Fen’Harel called out, stopping her. “Tell Andruil that I will pay her a visit once I finish!  And thank you!”

Sylaise bobbed her head with assent and waved, skipping off again.

Turning back to his books, he recalled why Andruil was first.  The Foci he had gotten a bead on happened to belong to a hunter.  Other than himself, no one fit the bill more perfectly than her.  He couldn’t tell the others all at once, not when they were all so bad at hiding it.  It was bad enough that Dirthamen had seen it for himself.  Mythal had entrusted him to the task and it was no small one so he needed to move cautiously.  If the books gave him any indication, the task of retrieving them would be dangerous.  The last known locations were in long forgotten collapsed ruins, warrens and burrows under the earth, unstable and full of who-knows-what.  So far, he had only had the time to narrow down the location of one, but he had the right books now to research the others.

There were four books that he would be taking with him when he went, ones that he could continue his research with whenever they needed to stop and rest.  Or more correctly, when Andruil needed to.  Although he was tired, he was not drained even after staying up for days straight.  He was still mentally alert as well.  Whatever the Foci was, it seemed to sustain him and tirelessly.  At the same time, he felt the magic was not infinite, that the Foci needed to be charged as well.  The food satisfied his palate, but he doubted he needed it to sustain him either.

If his assumptions were correct, there was a sort of prophetic turn to the ones the Foci should belong to, that it was no mere coincidence that it talked about the 18 who would hold them once again.  As he gathered the vague clues, he had been disconcerted by how aligned the traits were with the 9 high mages of his clan and the 9 high mages of another.  He wondered if the dwarves themselves carried the gift of foresight.  Mythal had a sort of eerie ability to do that, but not so far-seeing.

He thought about Mythal again, regretting his impulses with her and the flippant way she had brushed it off.  She had seemed almost flirtatious about the stolen kiss.  He didn’t want to think about it and pulled the interrupted book into his lap, picking up where he left off.

 

Fen’Harel had made good on his promise to Sylaise a couple days later and paid a visit, knowing that Andruil would be with her and June for repast that evening.  He was always welcome, but never more so than today when everyone had been fretting over his odd isolation.  He would have loved to ease their minds and told them but he couldn’t risk it, not this soon.  The Fomoire might be adept at secrets but they kept none from each other.  The fewer people that knew, the better.

Sylaise had risen out of her chair so quickly that she knocked it over, hurrying over to throw her arms around him in an embrace.  June smiled and nodded from over his wife’s head, not breaking from his feasting, Andruil looking at him with narrowed eyes.

“You had us all worried about you…  When are you planning on telling us what you’re up to?” Andruil asked suspiciously and Fen’Harel gave her a small smile.

“You’ll know sooner than most because you’re coming with me,” he told her, his smile falling lopsided with mischief.

“I’ve had my run with you already, lover boy.  Not falling for that again,” Andruil mumbled, earning a gasp from sweet Sylaise.

Andruil shot her a look of annoyance.

“Oh, can it, it’s not like you and June sleep in separate beds,” Andruil teased.

“Andruil…” June scolded her kindly, but with a gentle force behind his words.  He didn’t tolerate anyone distressing his wife, not even her sister.

Andruil threw her hands up in surrender.

“I was done anyway,” Andruil added, folding her arms and slouching in her chair to glare at Fen’Harel. “Suppose you tell me why you’re barking commands.”

“Supposing I do, it’s of dire importance that I keep this a secret until I am sure it will not cause a stir.  In time, all of you will know, but I will need you to trust me for the time being,” Fen’Harel explained, rounding the table to take his seat.

“That’s a really terrible pick-up line.  You could just say you want to fu—” Andruil began.

“Andruil!” Sylaise groaned and June shot Andruil a fiercer look this time.

“I’m serious,” Fen’Harel insisted and the room went quiet at his somber quiet tone.

“Yeah… yeah, I can see that,” Andruil returned, the fight draining out of her. “So convince me this isn’t one of your hare-brained schemes then.”

Fen’Harel sighed.  Andruil wasn’t even going to be the hardest one to convince.

“Not here, then.  We’ll eat and then I’ll take you back to my hut and show you,” Fen’Harel urged, preparing for yet another dig at his ego.

Andruil watched him with her sharp blue eyes, but simply nodded.  He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

They hadn’t spoken much until they arrived and he insisted that she had to come inside and shut them in.  The hut wasn’t completely weather proof so there would still be a green glow through the cracks.  There was enough daylight in the dusk sky to dampen it however.

Fen’Harel pulled the Foci from the fur and held it in his hand.  Andruil’s face was impassive, but her curiosity increased until realization set in.  When she had gotten the point, he tucked it away.  She grabbed his wrist and pulled him outside, her breaths quick as if she had been running.  It took a lot of running (or fucking) to make her that winded.

“T-that was…” Andruil stammered, still in disbelief.

“A Foci, yes,” Fen’Harel finished.

“The hell does it have to do with me?” she argued fearfully.

“I believe that one exists for each of the Nine and I have located yours,” Fen’Harel told her confidently.  He didn’t intend to bring up the other nine Foci but that was something he hoped to keep from all of them.

“Shit,” Andruil breathed out.

“Yeah. Shit,” Fen’harel agreed.

Andruil ran a hand through her fine brown shoulder length hair and bit her lip, a motion that he still found incredibly sexy.  She pushed his shoulder weakly.

“What if I say no?” Andruil shot back defiantly.

“You need to go.  I can’t unseal it alone,” Fen’Harel insisted.  Not entirely true, but he wouldn’t know for sure it was hers until she touched it.  He didn’t intend to let the suspense build this time around.

Andruil looked wretched with concern.

“And why should I?” Andruil pressed.

“Mythal thinks it will unite all of the clans again,” Fen’Harel told her simply.

“If she told you the sky was made of leg roast, you’d try to climb it and eat it.  You know what the Foci are, right?  They’re… they’re fucking death sentences, Fen!  The only way to stop it— “

“Is to find them all and unlock their potential,” Fen’Harel finished, attempting patience when she was trying it dearly.  “I know I haven’t been good to you, Andi, but unless we find them, I’ll be consumed.”

“So you want to drag me down with you?” Andruil blew up in a rage.

“It’s not like that.  Only the Nine can do it and each one will only respond to the one it was made for,” Fen’Harel explained, this being true. Unless they were claimed, it would continue to demand more than he could give.

“Our people didn’t even exist when those were made.  How the hell can they be made for us?” Andruil shouted, a croak breaking up her last words as tears poured down her lovely face.

Fen’harel reached out, brushing them away until she slapped his hands in her anger.

“You’re really sweet when you need something,” Andruil accused and he had the sense to show regret.

“I won’t make that mistake again,” Fen’Harel assured her.

“Damn straight, because I won’t let you,” Andruil hissed, folding her arms.  He could see that she was losing her fear and defiance, resigning herself to what this meant.  She sighed shakily and her angry eyes met his levelly.  “So we leave tomorrow?”

“Tonight.  I’d rather not have anyone suspect we’re up to something.  We’re going south,” Fen’Harel.

It told her all she needed to know.  No one traveled south.  It was rocky, barren, devoid of all but the most persistent life forms. It would definitely be the sort of place a dwarf would think it’s a good idea to hide something.

“We’ll only travel far enough to be out of sight then we’ll set up camp.  At least you’ll be the most amenable of the Nine in that respect,” Fen’Harel added with a smile.

Andruil was a hunter like him, so camping was par for the course. She nodded, the unease still lingering there.

Fen’Harel jerked his head in the direction they would go, reaching behind the flap of his hut to grab his large travel pack and a smaller one he had prepared for her, tossing it to her.

“Let’s go…”


	4. A Different Sort of Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel and Andruil find the cave they are seeking and must search it to find the Foci he believes belongs to her.

Andruil was a woman with no equal and, while the initial shock had rattled her, once they had begun traveling and hunting the bold, hungry creatures that ventured too close, she was back to being the lethal beauty that stirred him.

He had made good on his plans to travel only as far as needed and it took them to the edge of the vast forest Fen’Harel’s hut sat on the edge of. 

Andruil had showed a glimmer of nerves again.  There was no forest again to the south for as far as the eye could see.  It was an old elven adage: the forest will provide.  While she knew that it was largely bullshit (unless you were quite fond of eating nothing but bugs, berries, and mushrooms and didn’t endeavor to do more than foraging), even the fiercest among them didn’t enjoy straying too far from the forest.  She envied Fen’Harel his air of ease but then he was the sort that rarely put down roots.  If he weren’t striving to please Mythal, he was always looking for the next adventure.

“What do you see in her?” Andruil mumbled as he threw his pack up to catch a tree branch. 

He was stunned by the sudden question and Andruil realized she had said it out loud.

Fen’Harel smiled through a wince, letting her know he knew exactly who Andruil referred to.

“She is… the Mother.  She always does what is best and rarely thinks of herself,” he told her sheepishly, standing in a bold pose, legs akimbo, to balance the vulnerability of his words.  “I know no one understands, but it’s not what you think.  I love her, but not out of lust and not as man might love his wife.  She is more than a sister, more than a mother.  Ghilan’nain is like a mother…”

His words drifted.  Fen’Harel had never known his parents.  It didn’t bear the same tragedy that it might mean to other races; elves always cared for each other, never allowed any of their own to feel unwanted or alone.  Nevertheless, something always halted him when it came to talking about family.  He had always lived as if he had no intent of making one either.  Still, he always seemed to pause there and it seemed like a sort of reverence to the parents he never knew.  More so, he began to understand that his feelings for Mythal might be best explained as transcendent.  Still, it didn’t quite feel right.  Maybe the best things were never meant to be explained.  He grinned over at Andruil, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

“She isn’t the only woman I think of or anything, or the only one I love.  I love Sylaise and you too.  I’m not sure why people would compare it as if love has different weights and importance,” Fen’Harel finished with genuine confusion.

“You’re definitely a strange one,” Andruil added.  “And it was rude of me to ask.  I can be tactless, but that was in bad form.”

Fen’Harel beamed at her.

“No harm done.  We should get some rest,” he added, eager to clear his head for once.

Andruil nodded and threw her pack up a different tree, jerking her head up toward the high branch that sat the lowest.

“Gimme a boost,” Andruil requested.

Fen’Harel grabbed her calf and threw her up towards the branch with little effort.  She caught it, flipped around it and climbed a couple branches higher before settling comfortably in the nook of a wide limb.

Fen’Harel did not move until she had stopped fidgeting then scaled his own tree to get some rest.

 

The sun was completely up by the time Fen’Harel had roused from sleep.  It was very unlike him to sleep in and when he looked down Andruil was holding up a spit in his direction, fresh meat sizzling on the end.

He leapt down and seized it from her gratefully, once again devouring it as if he hadn’t eaten in days and Andruil crooked an eyebrow at him.

“You’ve been spending too much time picking up habits from those wolves of yours,” Andruil remarked, no daintier in her feasting.

“They are not mine.  Who would wear the pelts of their own kind?” Fen’Harel argued.

“In your case, I imagine they present themselves as offerings,” Andruil returned, only half-joking.

Fen’Harel shook his head solemnly.

“Our understanding has little to do with worship.  All I have in common with wolves is the need to survive,” he explained.

Andruil licked at the grease on her emptied stick and tossed it aside, swinging her pack over her shoulder.

“We shouldn’t tarry.  I’d rather not be out in the open by nightfall.  Where exactly are we going?” Andruil asked now.

“Exactly?  I am not sure.  I have a general location, but the Foci should react when it senses another.  If we are quick, it may be a half day’s journey to get close.  From there, it will slow while attempt to track it.”

 

It had been just as he said, flicking the place on the map of his opened book with the same landmarks drawn there in view, the sun still three quarters up from the morning horizon.  The way had been uneventful, but Andruil had been jumpy with every skitter.

“Now we just need to find some hint of an entrance,” Fen’Harel murmured as Andruil was cresting the hill ahead of him.  She reached back, stopping his hand from going to his Foci.

“No need for that.  I’m pretty sure this one’s advertising…” Andruil informed him and he took a couple steps to see what she meant.

There was a carved entrance in the side of the mountain there, down the hill before a crumbled pile of rock nestled on either side of the neglected arch, two ridiculously large semblances of dwarves on either side.  From where they stood it looked as if the rubble completely blocked the way in, so it bore closer inspection.

Andruil led the way down before carefully leaping up the rocks to the pile of rubble, peering around it.  She started pulling smaller rocks away with her gloved hands where there was a slight crack, the draft of musty cave air blowing out, when Fen’Harel pulled her hand away just in time so that a giant spider’s mandibles didn’t chomp into her hand.  It squealed as he flipped his short bone sword and impaled it.

“Start from further back.  We have no idea what else is in there,” he warned her.  She nodded, her mouth in a tight line.  Any other time she might argue, but what the hell did she know about rocks?

They worked at pulling away the rocks and, lucky for them, the pile here was all small and manageable.  Sometimes the wall would crumble a way a bit and they would jump back.  A few more spiders interrupted their haphazard excavation but they took care of them swiftly.  When there was finally enough room for both of them to squeeze through, they did so and Fen’Harel took out the Foci to light the dark entranceway.

A half dozen more spiders objected to the light and they fought them off.  The more they fought, the more Fen’Harel’s eyes surged with his lust for battle.  She kept her focus and reserve but it was a sight to behold, an efficient dance of death.  Once they emerged from the entry way, it opened into a large cavern, the Dwarven carvings more preserved without the elements wearing them away, but the statues had still fallen apart from time bearing down on the weaknesses in their sculpt.  Andruil ran her hand over the smooth cold surface of one.

“Why did they make the Foci?” Andruil asked with wonder.

“It is not known.  It is thought that they could foresee the flaws in everything, including the future they would never live to see,” he attempted to explain, seeing she was no more satisfied than he was.

“And you think that is what Mythal believes too.  How can you be certain that the Foci were not hidden away because they were never meant to be used?  Maybe they realized they made something terrible and couldn’t destroy them…” Andruil wondered.

Fen’Harel could not argue that she wasn’t right.  It was still unknown.  What was known was that he was on a timer unless the others could be recovered.  He only hoped that whatever they unlocked would not do more harm than good.  He wanted to believe in Mythal’s good intentions.  Anything could be used as a weapon in the wrong hands.

“We can’t leave the clans broken.  The rest of you may not see it, but all of our people, not just our clan, are laboring under an old misunderstanding.  It is weakening us, preventing us from greatness.  Common sense has not solved it, so drastic measures must be taken or our peace will be broken in the blood of war,” Fen’Harel added, his tone stronger with certainty.

Andruil gave pause, still looking around, noticing the faint pulse of the Foci.

“I suppose you may be right.  Are you making it do that?” Andruil asked, looking at the Foci.

“No.  It should pulse stronger when we are close.  Let’s get moving.  There is no telling how deep this cavern goes.  The dwarves are rather fond of creating whole worlds below ours,” Fen’Harel pressed on ahead of her this time.

On the upside, their descent further in was no maze and there was but one straight path into each new chamber.  There were more creatures to thin out.  The chamber ahead looked a little different from afar and Andruil made to step into the entryway leading to it, when Fen’Harel suddenly pulled her back, the metallic swish of spears pierced the spot where she had been.

“Booby traps. I thought we’d had it too easy so far…” Fen’Harel murmured, not wanting to attract anything better off sleeping.

On high alert now, it was easier to avoid the traps, but they were certainly not so simple in nature as to be unconcerned.  The chamber that looked different from afar loomed closer and this time, Andruil picked up a chunk of rock, lobbing it into the chamber to see what it might set off.  A series of whirring blades swirled impossibly all over before returning into their slots.  Andruil was clearly dismayed, but Fen’Harel was digging out a book from his pack frowning.

He flipped through the pages, his eyes lighting up as he tapped the page with confidence.

“Here!” he exclaimed, turning the book to show her the page.  “See these symbols?  They are the same as the ones on the floor.  You must step on them in that order.  And make sure they are exact.  Some are very similar and, well, you know what to expect…”

“Me?” Andruil asked with consternation.  “Why me?”

“Because I’d have to walk on tiptoe.  Your feet are small enough to fit on them,” he explained sympathetically.  “Look, there’s a switch that will turn off the traps on the other side.  All of them.  Take your time.  Here, leave your stuff with me so nothing falls and…”

“Yeah, yeah, got it,” Andruil interrupted, stripping off anything that wasn’t firmly attached, even binding back her hair as he tore the page from the book to hand to her.

“Slowly,” Fen’Harel reminded, planting a kiss on her forehead for luck.

Nodding, she steeled herself and stood before the stones.  She could barely make out the Foci on the other side, but as the room glowed brighter from Fen’Harel channeling his, it became more clear.  She felt better that she could now easily see the runes on the floor.

It was the most nerve-wracking two minutes of her life before she reached the other side, nearly diving for the switch in her anxiety. 

She stayed kneeling on her hands and knees as she slowed the racing of heart, Fen’Harel joining her, stooping down to rub her back.

“You’re all right now.  All that’s left is to claim it,” Fen’Harel told her, helping her stand again.

She felt wobbly as she walked towards the dais, still not at ease.  She reached a reluctant hand for it but stopped shy, looking at him now.

“How can I be sure it is mine?” she asked cautiously.

“Anyone can handle a Foci.  If you have no magic, it does nothing.  For a mage it doesn’t belong to, it glows red.  When it belongs to you…” Fen’Harel drifted, simply holding the green glow in his hand.  She nodded and swallowed with difficulty, holding it in her hand.

She flinched as it glowed green.  Like he did, she cried out in wonder, her lusty cry echoing in the chamber.  There was an ominous sound of shifting rock in the distance and Fen’Harel helped her steady herself.

“We need to go.  Now,” he warned and they hurried back through the chambers as a quaking started, the walls crumbling around them.  They had made it to the exit moments before it caved back in and they caught their breath in relief.

Fen’Harel stood, seeing that she still clasped her Foci.  He gently plucked it from her hand and put it in her pack.

“Don’t leave it exposed.  We don’t want prying eyes to realize what this is,” Fen’Harel warned, not doubting that Dirthamen’s disgusting birds might be doing so, among other things.

Andruil nodded numbly, noticing the sun was a quarter towards the evening horizon.

“The sun will set in a few hours.  I’m ready to put this place far behind me,” Andruil said, taking off for home again.

 

They reached the edge of the forest by nightfall and it would be another hour yet before they reached the opposite edge where Fen’Harel’s hut sat.

They hadn’t eaten since that morning and they were in a bit of a hurry to put those ruins behind them.  Andruil’s stomach growled in protest so Fen’Harel pulled her into his hut and sat her down.  He rummaged through a lidded basket and tossed her a tin.

“Here.  It’s not much but it’ll help you sleep with a full belly,” Fen’Harel told her.  She opened the tin greedily and shoved a handful of shredded jerky in her mouth, rolling her eyes like it was the best thing she ever tasted.  He laughed.

Andruil looked at him as if she wanted to talk but had to chew around the wad of jerky before she could.

“What am I to do now?  I know it is to stay a secret, but…” Andruil began.

“Continue on as normal.  I will take each of you individually and no one will be suspicious.  Not all of them will be day trips, but it often takes a few days to make the others wonder.  Sylaise will not be happy, but I have located the one I believe is June’s next.  She will be a lot less happy when her time is here,” Fen’Harel explained.

More than that, something else weighed on his mind.  Even being able to narrow down the location for most of them, there were pages missing.  And it just so happened that Mythal’s and Elgar’nan’s seemed to be the ones he couldn’t locate.

Andruil nodded, happy to clog her mouth with the spiced meat again.

“I thought you hated jerky,” Fen’Harel added in amusement.

She rolled her eyes, waiting to make room to speak again.

“Not as much as I hate hunger,” she mumbled.

Andruil had been strangely exhausted, not so much bodily, but the excitement had drained her mentally.  She had ended up accepting Fen’Harel’s offer to sleep on his bedroll beside him and both were all too happy to simply cuddle against each other and pass out.  Like Fen’Harel had said, it didn’t seem necessary, but clearing her mind was a priority and she let sleep take her.


	5. Fraidy Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel comes back to his clan on the tail end of a dispute with a rival clan and must take June away while they are distracted to retrieve his Foci. It comes Fen'Harel's attention that the Foci's trials seem tailored to the ones they are meant for to never find them.

Fen’Harel left her to sleep when he got up and headed over to the cottage that Sylaise and June shared.  A couple of the clan guards had sped past with serious looks on their faces and as another came by, he grabbed his arm to stop him.

“What’s going on?” Fen’Harel demanded.

“Border skirmish, sir, from the East,” the guard said in a hurry, shaking Fen’Harel off and running on ahead.

He flicked his head in that direction, at war with his mission and the thrill of battle.

“Well… shit…” Fen’Harel growled and hurried towards the skirmish.

There was nothing quite like the thrill of battle.

It didn’t surprise him that Dirthamen and Falon’Din were already in the thick of things when he got there.  The eastern clan was vastly outnumbered and as much as he loved to fight, he wanted to know what was going on more. He didn’t draw it out like he usually would and cut a path through the chaos until he reached the twin he liked more, Falon’Din.

He fell in behind Falon’Din’s back and shouted over his shoulder.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Fen’Harel called out, clashing swords with the next fool to want to die.

“Your friends to the north decided to hijack a merchant caravan that was supposed to get to the eastern clans,” Falon’Din shot back accusingly.

“My friends, as you call them, are not thieves.  They also don’t police every road in the north for bandits,” Fen’Harel reminded him as the man he fought took a blow to the kneecap before he laid open his throat.

Not long after, they called a retreat.  It was clear it wasn’t meant to be more than a warning and indeed, Fen’Harel’s clan had suffered many losses as well.  Fen’Harel was already dazed with the battlelust and stepped forward to give chase when he felt a hand clamp on his upper arm.  He bared his teeth in rage, his eyes widening when he saw Mythal there, resplendent in battle armor.

“You should not be here, my wolf.  You have more important matters to attend to. This must be handled with more diplomacy.  Please, do not tarry here,” Mythal told him, kind but firm.

His lip curled with petulance and he held her gaze as he knelt to clean his blade before sheathing it.  He said nothing more and started back towards where Sylaise and June resided.  It took everything he had to keep to his resolve to put distance between them.

Sylaise was already up watering flowers and turned to smile at Fen’harel, her face falling to see the blood on his clothes.  She dropped her water pail, hand trembling to her mouth.

“Fen’Harel, is Andruil—?” Sylaise started, tears already forming in her eyes.

“No!” Fen’Harel blurted out without hesitation.  “No, there was trouble with the eastern clan.  She’s fine.  I had her stay in my hut.  She was exhausted.”

Sylaise let out a huge sigh of relief and dabbed at her eyes with her apron. June came out and saw Sylaise’s teary eyes and Fen’Harel could tell it was going to take a dark turn.

“She’s fine.  Both of them, Andruil and Sylaise.  I only came here to speak with you,” Fen’Harel explained quickly.

“June?  Y-you’re not going to…” Sylaise started and Fen’Harel nodded.

“We’ll be as quick as possible.  Pack light,” Fen’Harel instructed, shooting him a look that said not to drag this out.

Of course, it wouldn’t be Sylaise and June without a tearful, sappy good bye and Fen’Harel gave them some privacy, heading for the western road and sitting on a stump there.

He heard June approach and stood up with a short nod, waving to Sylaise before heading away.

“You don’t expect me to just come along without knowing what the hell you’re up to…” June started.

“And you think Andruil did?” Fen’Harel joked, but June was not amused.  “It’s easier if I show you.  We need to be out of sight first.”

Once again, with some distance between them and the village, he drew out the Foci and explained Mythal’s theory and the dangers of not finding the rest.  June grabbed Fen’Harel by his fur, seething with anger.

“How could you drag Andruil into this?  Do you have any idea how devastated Sylaise will be if anything happens to her sister?” June shouted and Fen’Harel shoved June away.

“I didn’t intend to drag anyone else into this if I could locate them first.  It will be dangerous, but if we ever hope to see peace again, this is a risk we must take,” Fen’Harel said with conviction.

June laughed bitterly and shook his head.

“By the stars, you’re smitten with her. Do you ever question her at all?” June hissed unhappily.

“I’m really tiring of everyone thinking I’m Mythal’s little lapdog.  Of course I do!  And if you think I wasn’t pissed at her for tricking me into this, you’re wrong!  Enough of this.  You wanted to know where we’re going, then here,” Fen’Harel shot back, tossing June a scroll.

June unrolled it and frowned at the map on it.

“This is…” June started, clamping his mouth shut nervously.

“Yeah. Widow Falls.  Unfortunately, the Foci that was said to be lost there was meant for a man of the craft and no one else fits the description,” Fen’Harel said, his voice softer now with sympathy.

“Heights and water though,” June said miserably.

It was odd for an elf to be afraid of either, but June had a few misfortunes of youth that made it impossible to overcome those fears.  Andruil wasn’t exactly good with enclosed places so he had wondered if they were meant to find the Foci or if they had been hidden in the places as repulsive to their fated keepers as possible.  So much about this had bothered him from the very first, but he had to see this through to the end.  He didn’t intend to die and Mythal had damn well known it.

June had grown sad now.

“When it’s time for Sylaise to go, I can’t let her go without me,” June said desperate with the ache of his heart.

Fen’Harel patted June’s shoulder.

“I promise I will save hers for last.  If the three of us being gone arouses any suspicion by then, it will soon be resolved anyway,” Fen’Harel assured him.

He had already thought that through from the beginning.  Ghilan’nain would be another tough one to bring away without suspicion.  The twins he could bring together on a scouting mission. When it was down to Sylaise, Mythal and Elgar’nan, he intended to confront their dear Clan leaders about how they intended to retrieve theirs.

This one wasn’t as far, but the minute they reached the river leading to the falls, June would not be the stalwart smith he usually was.  June was very much like the big cats, dunking a reluctant toe in the shallow edge of the gentle flowing river as if to test the bottom that could clearly be seen.  Fen’Harel screwed up his face trying not to laugh, hearing June gasp as he plunged through it in great splashes.  Once it got to his waist, a cruel thought entered his head and he collapsed into the water as if it had pulled him under, holding his breath as he crouched low and waiting.

He could hear the muffled cries and then the sudden frantic rush of lurching movement before a great hand roughly pulled him from the water.  June’s eyes were black with anger and terror as he shook the laughing Dread Wolf by his collar.

“You bastard!  I was worried you were really drowning!” June cried, spittle flying from his lips as he sputtered.

“Well, we’re halfway across now so better get this over with,” Fen’Harel interjected slyly, slipping out of June’s grasp and wading to the other side.

June was subdued, knowing it had been his friend’s rough way of pushing him through his hesitation, but felt anything but grateful.

They continued on in silence, following the river as the gentle flow grew choppier, quicker, the sound of the rushing falls in the distance only adding to June’s reluctance to move or speak, his steps growing heavier.  Fen’Harel once more removed his Foci from his furs and nodded with satisfaction at the gentle pulsing of green light.

June watched it with fascination and fear, clearing his throat to speak.

“What power does that thing have anyway?” June asked in a hushed voice.

Fen’Harel’s eyes flicked towards June and he shrugged as he tucked it away again.

“It is hard to say.  I have not used it too much, for obvious reasons.  There is a sort of… connection that I feel.  It takes away the basic need for things like sleeping and eating, makes me feel stronger, but there is always the feeling that there is more to it, a craving unsatisfied.  I can focus my magic better.  And it makes for a pretty handy torch,” he added in an attempt to be lighthearted that fell flat as his words drifted.

“It’s killing you,” June reminded him cruelly.

“I suppose it might.  It is feeding on my energy while it gives and my life force is limited.  However, the reward for joining them…” Fen’Harel started, but June finished it.

“Is immortality…  For our kind.  Why would the dwarves make these for us and not themselves?” June asked doubtfully.

“Maybe they tried, but they are missing something essential that no one has been able to pinpoint,” Fen’Harel said with a shrug.

They followed the steep path down the waterfall until Fen’Harel stopped June suddenly with a hand to his shoulder, pointing at a small opening behind the falls.  It would be easy to miss, but there was a glimpse of an oddly shaped rock there, probably once a statue but now worn by the flow of water and dripping with moss.  It resembled the markers on the map.

If there had been a path over to it at one point of time, it had long crumbled away and the drop down below it was certainly fatal.  June groaned as he looked at Fen’Harel.

“You can’t possibly tell me you expect us to cross,” June grumbled dejectedly.

“I hadn’t thought to try it before with Andruil, but perhaps my Foci can be of some help here,” Fen’Harel offered.

He focused his powers into the Foci, willing the rocks to extend towards him.  There was a rumbling, groaning from the massive wall as it protested the gall that an elf would have to attempt to shape the Stone.  Still, it pulled away into a rough series of platforms, still not terribly safe and sturdy but it would serve.

June looked no less relieved at the gaps they would have to leap to reach the mostly concealed platform behind the falls.  Fen’Harel was satisfied nonetheless and tucked away the Foci to pull out a rope from his pack, knotting it around his own waist first then around his frowning friend’s before anchoring it to a boulder.

“This seems like a really bad idea,” June mumbled.

“It could have been worse,” Fen’Harel reminded him before gesturing for the platform.  “You first.  It’s only three jumps, so suck it up and make it quick.”

He could see June’s knees quivered slightly but his face was set with resolution as he nodded, bracing himself to get a running start.  Fen’Harel pretended to wait, but he ran behind June when June found his courage and leapt close behind.  June collapsed to his hands and knees, gasping in terror as he reached the other side, jumping as he felt Fen’Harel clap his shoulder proudly.

“Only once more once we’re finished here,” he teased, catching another black look from his friend.

They undid the rope from their waists and Fen’Harel anchored it to the worn statue.  _Sure enough, there was a cave back here_ , a sentiment he kept to himself.  June never would have crossed if there was any chance it would be a waste.  Fen’Harel could only hope the way to the Foci was still intact.

This particular cave was musty and slippery, descending further down into a spiral with June hugging the wall, his eyes wild with uncertainty.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think this thing was purposely trying to make sure I don’t find it,” June said softly when the echoed dripping throughout was competing with the beating of his heart.

Fen’Harel had thought the same thing, but he held his tongue.  The only thing that hadn’t made Andruil, and now June, turn tail was his sheer stubborn insistence that it could be done.  He might have teased them, but he knew better than to take this lightly as they closed in on each one. 

Or four.

Fen’Harel had anticipated the possible wildlife, the traps. What he hadn’t anticipated were four daises holding Foci in the main chamber.  While he was grateful he wouldn’t have to send a lumbering June across a path of runes, he had no clue what trick this might entail.

“Am I supposed to pick one?” June asked when Fen’Harel had grown quiet for too long.

Fen’Harel shook his head.

“Let me try something,” Fen’Harel finally spoke, stepping forward cautiously.

He raised his own Foci near the first one and it glowed orange.  It was clearly a Foci, but he wasn’t satisfied.  He moved his own to the next and the next, both of them glowing orange.  When he reached the last, it glowed red and he nodded.

“This one must be yours,” Fen’Harel said, his voice unsure as he frowned at the others.

Fen’Harel grabbed the Foci from its dais, tossing it to June who fumbled a bit with reluctance to touch it, but it glowed green.  Fen’Harel ignored the gurgling cries coming from June as he took out a small scrap on paper and scribbled something on it before tucking it away.  June looked dazed when Fen’Harel looked up again.

“What about the others? Are they fake?” June asked, a look of hope in his eyes, thinking maybe Sylaise would be spared from one of these trials herself if they were not.

Fen’Harel took no joy in crushing that hope.

“Not fake, but not ours.  Leave them,” Fen’Harel said, not liking to lie but not wanting to tell June what he suspected either.  There were many in the clan, even among the Nine, who would not want the other clans to have any part in this…

They exited the way they came in and, once outside, one of those awful ravens was squawking from where it was perched on the statue.  Fen’Harel was glad to see it for a change and snatched it up by its leg while its wings pounded at him in an attempt to escape.  He withdrew the little slip of paper and tied it to the bird’s foot.

“Take this back to your asshole of a master, would you?” Fen’Harel snarled before letting it go.

“Why is Dirthamen having us followed?” June asked.

“I might have let it slip that I have a Foci.  Looks like I’m dragging them along next.  He’s clearly getting impatient,” Fen’Harel sighed unhappily. 

Again, Fen’Harel did not think it a coincidence that two of the Foci were together, apparently linked already.  Even with no additional clues as to who they were meant to belong to, the hint couldn’t be clearer.

He might not like Dirthamen much on his worst days, but the bastard would be able to get his message where it needed to go.  He might have made the ghastly creature deliver it directly, but the northern lands were full of water beasts and hunters alike that would make a meal (albeit a disgusting one) out of a raven.  He didn’t need Dirthamen breathing down his neck about another dead bird.

Impatience stole over Fen’Harel seeing June sweating and shaky, the rope hanging limply in his hand.  He rolled his eyes, knowing if he gave him his way, he’d be waiting around all damn day.  He yanked the rope, pulling it taut and lassoing the end around June in a quick knot and gave him a hard shove.  June screamed like an animal caught in a trap but gathered his wits enough to catch his feet on the rock wall below so he wouldn’t be slammed against it like a rag doll.

While June was still in shock, Fen’Harel leapt over the rocks, only momentarily debating on whether or not he should dissolve the ledges he made (which were clearly not natural) but thought better of it.  He didn’t intend to make it harder for the ones they belonged to to find them.

He bent to grab the rope a stunned June still dangled from and strained his muscles to pull the much bulkier elf up with it.

“Use your damn legs, June, you’re a grown man,” Fen’Harel growled through gritted teeth, the muscles cording from the strain in his neck.

This seemed to shock June to his senses and he kicked himself up the last few feet.

Fen’Harel blocked the punch he knew was coming, crouching and thrusting his body weight forward into June to knock him onto his back.  They wrestled for the upper hand, tumbling angrily in the grass, until they both ended up laughing on their backs, panting from the effort.  At least June wasn’t pissed anymore.

“Stupid asshole…  You could’ve killed me,” June grumbled.

“Don’t be ridiculous.  Elves always land on their feet,” Fen’Harel said, way too cheerfully to be angry.

“Moron, that’s ‘cats,’ not ‘elves.’ You probably should have shown up for lessons more, impatient bastard,” June shot back, lurching to his feet and offering his hand to help Fen’Harel up.  Fen’Harel took it and headed back to retrieve his rope.

“We don’t exactly have gobs of time to waste,” Fen’Harel snapped back, not meaning for it to sound so bitter. 

June sobered to that thought a bit too, pulling the foci out of his belt and watching its yellow-green glow.

“When you touched it, did you--?” June started, a bit embarrassed by the climactic reaction.  Fen’Harel hadn’t exactly noticed and had already known it was coming.  He never had the same reservations about anything sexual that June and his wife seemed to have either.

“Yeah, the same,” Fen’Harel admitted, heading back up river.  The sky was already orange with the light of dusk and it would be well into the middle of the night/early morning before they got back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story breaks here for now, but there are still more Foci to be found. Follow Fen'Harel on his misunderstood path for power, resolution, love, and trust.


End file.
